Resurrection
by BookkeeperThe
Summary: Kyle is surprised to see an old college friend after seven years. Especially considering that said friend is Sam Winchester, who is supposedly a psychopath. And dead. Post-s7; outsider POV.


**Notes: takes place sometime after season seven, so spoilers. Other than that . . . a swearword or two, but that's about it. Tell me what you think!**

Kyle was not a risk-taker. The single most reckless thing he had ever done was speeding down an empty interstate at ninety-five miles per hour in his friend's dad's Ferrari. It had scared the crap out of him.

So if he had not been ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine per cent sure that he was mistaken, he would not have followed the man who, out of the corner of his eye, had looked exactly like Sam Winchester.

Sam had been a friend to him, in his college days. Sam had been a friend to a lot of people. He had been kind and polite and much smarter than he ever gave himself credit for, which was refreshing in a school full of people who knew exactly how clever they were and then some. Kyle had been shocked and horrified to see Sam's face flashed across the news with labels like 'serial killer' and 'psychopath.' There had always been a certain intensity to him, and there had been that one time when a drunken frat boy had gotten handsy with Jess and Sam had laid him out in ten seconds flat – but _Sam Winchester_? Kyle had never quite believed it.

Still.

He wasn't a risk-taker.

If it were not for the fact that Sam Winchester had been killed in a police station several months ago, Kyle would not have turned and tailed after the tall, shaggy-haired man whom he caught sight of on the way to his car. As it was, he got a bit nervous as the man made his way to a more secluded part of campus, always far enough ahead that Kyle couldn't get a good look at him. He had just about made up his mind to go home and forget about the whole thing when he turned a corner and found . . . no one. A truck and a dumpster and the back of a dining hall, not a soul in sight.

Huh. He must have been imagining things. The beginning of the school year was always stressful, but had never chased nonexistent people before.

Slightly perturbed and resolving to get more sleep, he turned to go –

– and found himself pinned against a brick wall, cold metal at his neck and colder eyes boring into his.

"Why are you following me?" growled his captor, and _oh god oh god oh __**shit**_it was really Sam Winchester and he really was completely insane.

"I –" Kyle began, and then stopped, resisting the urge to swallow. He was gradually becoming aware that the thing pressed to his neck was a very, very large knife. More of a machete, really. He tried to keep calm, to remind himself that mediating conflict was what he did for a living – except that normally the conflict was with law students who were annoyed about the new grading policy, not psychopaths who were threatening to slice his throat open.

Nevertheless, the basic principles remained the same. Be calm and polite, don't put them on the defensive, and if at all possible, tell the truth.

"I recognized you. From Stanford. I'm Kyle; Kyle Becket. We were in the same dorm sophomore year, both pre-law?"

Sam frowned at him, something like doubt edging its way into his hard hazel eyes. Those eyes had always been older than his face, but they used to be soft. "Like a great big puppy," Becky had teased fondly, ruffling his hair and eliciting an irritated scowl which hadn't quite covered his grin.

Sam wasn't grinning now, and Kyle doubted there was anyone on the planet who was brave enough to try to ruffle his hair.

"Don't. Move," Sam ordered. Kyle held very still, barely daring to breathe as Sam reached into his jacket and pulled out a silver flask. The knife remained at his throat while Sam unscrewed the cap one-handed.

Kyle couldn't repress his flinch when cool liquid splashed against his neck, and paid for the movement when the razor-sharp knife slid against his skin and drew blood. Sam's eyes flickered from the liquid to the cut, and he fell back abruptly.

Kyle let out the breath he had been holding in a relieved sigh, then winced in a belated reaction to the force with which he had been slammed against the wall. He was going to be bruised in the morning.

"Sorry," said Sam, sincere and somewhat sheepish. It was jarring, coming from a man who was still holding a blade the length of his forearm. "The question's still the same, though. Why are you following me? Aren't I supposed to be a serial killer or something?"

"I – I thought I was mistaken," said Kyle, still anxious but no longer terrified. Sam spoke about the allegations against him with vague disdain, and what Kyle had taken for mania now looked more like paranoia. Which wasn't entirely reassuring, but better than the alternative. "You're supposed to be dead."

"Yeah, well." Sam let out a hollow chuckle. "Never seems to stick."

Kyle wasn't so sure about that. The shadow of death hung heavily around Sam's slumped shoulders – it was there in the bruises on his neck, the looseness of his clothes, the pallor of his skin. It was there in his eyes, now that the ice had retreated.

Sam noticed his scrutiny and cleared his throat awkwardly, tucking the knife away.

"I should get going; I'm kind of in the middle of something. You're, um, not going to call the cops or anything, are you?"

"No." His fear was all but gone now, leaving sick sorrow in its wake. He had really liked Sam, cared about him, worried when he disappeared after that fire – but the man in front of him was a stranger, a dead man walking in more ways than one. There seemed to be little trace left of the determinedly studious, quietly hopeful boy he had known. Even now, Sam looked more resigned than nervous. "They wouldn't believe me, anyway."

"Thanks," said Sam. "Sorry again about . . ." He gestured at Kyle's neck, which still stung a little.

"Don't worry about it," Kyle said automatically as Sam turned away, and then, on impulse – "Sam, wait."

Sam turned back. There was a strange look in his eyes, as if he wasn't used to the sound of his own name.

"Yeah?"

Kyle hesitated, realizing that he wasn't sure what he had planned to say. He couldn't invite him back to his house – psychopath or not, Sam was obviously dangerous on several different levels, and he couldn't put his family at risk – but he could offer him something. A motel room. A warm meal.

"Do you have a place to sleep?" Kyle asked, carefully, because Sam had always held a hatred for pity – but it seemed even that had burned away in whatever hell he had been through, and he merely gave a huff of weary amusement.

"I'm not homeless, Kyle." Sam straightened up a little, trying to look more composed and succeeding, in a way. He looked like soldier snapping to attention, all tension and invisible wounds. "I'm not a drunk, I'm not a junkie, and I'm not crazy."

There was a flicker in his eyes at that last statement, an unspoken ending which may have been _anymore_ or _yet_ or _at the moment_ or some combination of the three.

"But you're in trouble," said Kyle, and it wasn't a question, because sane, safe people didn't usually threaten old friends with very large knives. They also didn't glance over their shoulder every few seconds or move with the paradoxically wary prowl of a hunted predator.

Sam laughed again, longer this time and with no hint of mirth.

"I've been in trouble since before I was born," he said, and somehow, it didn't sound like a figure of speech. "Look, I appreciate the concern, but really, I'm fine." His strained attempt at a smile screamed that he was anything but. "Bye, Kyle."

Then he was gone, faster and more silently than should have been possible for a man his size.

**-SPN-**

Kyle told his wife about it.

He left out the details, of course, so as not to alarm her. Just said that he ran into an old friend from college, didn't mention any names, didn't mention the wall or the knife or the weird thing with the flask.

("Oh, that? Didn't even notice. Must've cut myself shaving.")

He did mention the odd feeling of loss for someone who was standing right in front of him, and the gnawing guilt that still remained on account of his own inaction. She reminded him, gently, that he couldn't do much for someone who didn't want his help, that it wasn't his responsibility to fix everything, and that it was only a combination of his compassion and perfectionism talking. He felt a little better.

A few days later the guilt had diminished considerably. In fact, he could ignore it perfectly well if he had something else to focus on.

He turned on the news and listened to the anchor talk about the bizarre amounts of dry lightning they'd been having just outside of town.

**-SPN-**

Kyle wasn't hoping to see Sam again.

He wasn't hoping _not_ to see Sam again, either. He just assumed that whatever he hoped, Sam Winchester was long gone, so when he collided with a six-foot-four wall of muscle on the way out of a diner a week after their encounter, he was more startled than anything.

"Kyle!" said Sam, sounding nearly as surprised as he was. "You alright?"

"Yeah," said Kyle as he regained his footing and glanced up at Sam, who hadn't even wavered. "You look better."

That was the understatement of the year. He looked like a man brought back to life. There was color in his cheeks and light in his eyes which hadn't been there before, and when he smiled Kyle could almost believe he had travelled back seven years, to when he had listened jealously while his crush cooed over Sam's dimples.

"Yeah, I know," Sam agreed. "Oh, um." He shifted sideways so Kyle could see the two men who were coming in behind him. They seemed to be bickering – or maybe the one with spiky hair was scolding the one in the trench coat, it was hard to tell – but they cut themselves off as they moved forward. "This is my brother, Dean," Sam introduced, gesturing to the spiky-haired one. "And this is, um."

He glanced at the one in the trench coat as if unsure of how to describe their relationship. The other man stared back unhelpfully with unblinking blue eyes.

". . . This is Cas," Sam finally settled on.

"He's a friend," Dean interjected smoothly, clapping a hand on Cas's shoulder.

"Hello," said Cas with a surprisingly gravelly voice.

"Hello," said Kyle. "I'm a friend too, I guess. Or I mean, I was. I went to Stanford with Sam."

Dean's gaze went sharp at that, and Sam cleared his throat.

"Why don't you and Cas go get us a table, Dean?" he said pointedly. "I'll be there in a minute."

Dean shot a look at Sam, and the two brothers held some sort of silent conversation before the elder one conceded.

"Alright, Cas, come on. Better leave the girls to their gossip."

Sam rolled his eyes as they moved away. Cas was saying something, too low to make out, but Dean's exasperated response drifted back to them.

("Yes, of course _our_ friend. Who else would you be friends with, the jukebox?")

"Sorry about that," Sam apologized with a grimace. "School's kind of a touchy subject."

"No problem," said Kyle. "I was heading out, anyway. Just came back in for this." He held up the stuffed cat he had been holding the whole time. "My daughter left it. She drags it around everywhere. Anyway. Glad to see you're alright."

He really, really was, too. Sure, maybe Dean Winchester had a problem with higher education. Maybe his friend didn't know how to blink. Maybe Sam's hair was way too long. Maybe all three of them were psychotic killers come back from the dead. (Kyle still didn't quite believe that.) But Kyle's wife was right: it wasn't his responsibility to fix everything. And to be perfectly honest . . .

He glanced back. Dean was ruffling Sam's hair, and Sam wasn't even trying to hide his grin.

To be perfectly honest, he didn't see anything broken.


End file.
